THE ODYSSEY — AI Adaptation
Book 16: The Father and the Son

At first light Odysseus and the swineherd had a fire going and breakfast cooking. The other herdsmen were already out with the pigs. When Telemachus came near, the dogs that usually barked at strangers only wagged their tails and fawned around him. Odysseus heard the soft sound of feet and saw the dogs fawning instead of snarling.

"Eumaeus," he said quickly, "someone's coming: one of your men, maybe, or a friend. The dogs aren't barking. They're happy. And I can hear footsteps."

He hadn't finished speaking before his own son stood in the doorway. Eumaeus jumped up, stunned. The bowls he'd been mixing wine in dropped from his hands. He rushed to Telemachus, his young master, and kissed his head, his eyes, both his hands, crying. A father whose only son comes home after ten years in some far country, a son he raised through endless worry, could not have held him closer. That was how the swineherd wrapped his arms around Telemachus and kissed him all over, as if the boy had come back from the dead.

"You're here, Telemachus, light of my eyes," he choked out. "I never thought I'd see you again once you sailed for Pylos. Come in, dear child, let me look at you. You don't come out to the farm much. You stay in town, watching that pack of suitors and the harm they do."

"All right, old friend," clear-thinking Telemachus said. "But I came for you: to see you with my own eyes and hear from you whether my mother is still in the house, or whether some man has finally married her, so that the bed of Odysseus stands empty now, with cobwebs hanging over it."

"She's still in the house," said Eumaeus, "with a patient, breaking heart. Her nights and days waste away in tears."

He took the boy's bronze spear, and Telemachus stepped through the stone doorway and came inside. Odysseus started to give up his seat, but Telemachus stopped him. "Stay where you are, stranger. We'll find another seat. There's a man here who'll lay one out for me."

Odysseus sat back down. Eumaeus piled fresh green branches and spread a fleece over them, and there the son of Odysseus took his place. The swineherd set platters of roast meat before them, leftovers from the day before, heaped bread quickly into baskets, and mixed sweet wine in a wooden bowl. Then he sat down facing Odysseus. They reached for the food, and when they had eaten and drunk all they wanted, Telemachus asked the swineherd:

"Old friend, where does this stranger come from? How did sailors bring him to Ithaca, and who did they say they were? He surely didn't walk here over the sea."

And you answered him, Eumaeus: "I'll tell you the truth, my boy. He says he comes from the wide land of Crete. He's wandered through many cities of men: that's the fate some god spun for him. Just now he's run from a Thesprotian ship and come to my place. I hand him over to you. Do with him what you want. But remember, he's come asking for shelter and your protection."

"Eumaeus, that's a hard thing you've put on me," said Telemachus. "How can I take this stranger into my house? I'm young. I can't trust my own hands to fight off a grown man who picks a quarrel. And my mother's mind is split in two: whether to stay with me and keep the house, honoring her husband's bed and what people would say, or whether to go now with the best of the men courting her, whoever offers the most. Still, since he's come to your station, I'll give the stranger a good cloak and tunic, a sword with two edges, and sandals, and send him wherever his heart tells him to go. Or if you'd rather, keep him here and look after him, and I'll send the clothes and all the food, so he won't be a drain on you and your men. But I won't let him go among the suitors. They're savage with their insults. They'd mock him, and that would cut me deep. One man, however strong, can't do much against a crowd. They'd be too many for him."

Then long-suffering Odysseus spoke up. "Friend, since I think I'm allowed to answer, it tears my heart to hear what these suitors do, scheming their outrages in the house, against the will of a man like you. Tell me: do you let them grind you down by choice, or do the people of your land hate you, following some warning from a god? Or do you blame your brothers — the men a fellow counts on in a fight, even when a great quarrel breaks out? If only I were as young as I feel in my heart, if I were the son of noble Odysseus, or Odysseus himself, just come home from his wanderings, then let some stranger lop off my head if I didn't march into the hall of Laertes' son Odysseus and become the ruin of every one of them. And if their numbers beat me down, alone as I'd be — I'd rather be killed in my own house than keep watching this disgrace day after day: strangers shoved around, the slave women dragged through those beautiful rooms, the wine guzzled dry, the food eaten up for nothing, on and on, for a thing that will never come to pass."

"Stranger, I'll tell you the whole truth," Telemachus answered. "It isn't that the people hate me, or that I have brothers to blame — the men you look to in a fight. No. Zeus made our line run thin: only sons, one after another. Arceisius had one son, Laertes. Laertes had one son, Odysseus. And Odysseus left only me behind when he sailed — and got no good of me. That's why the house is full of enemies now. Every chief who holds power on the islands — Dulichium, Same, wooded Zacynthus — and every lord in rocky Ithaca itself, they all court my mother and bleed the house dry. She won't refuse the marriage she hates, and she can't bring herself to end it. They keep eating, wasting everything, and soon they'll tear me apart too. But all of this is in the gods' hands. Go quickly, old friend, tell wise Penelope I'm safe and home from Pylos. I'll stay here. Come straight back, and tell her alone. Let no other Achaean hear it. Too many of them want me dead."

And you answered, Eumaeus: "I understand. I follow you. You're telling a man who already sees it. But tell me this, plainly: should I go the same road to give the news to poor Laertes too? He used to grieve for Odysseus but still kept an eye on the farm, and ate and drank with the workers when his heart moved him. But now, ever since you sailed for Pylos, they say he won't eat or drink at all, won't look at the fields. He just sits, groaning and crying, and the flesh is wasting off his bones."

"That's a hard thing," said Telemachus, "but we'll have to leave him for now, sorry as we are. If men could simply choose, the first thing I'd choose would be my father's homecoming day. Give your message and come back. Don't wander off through the fields to find Laertes. Tell my mother to send an attendant, the housekeeper, to him quietly, as fast as she can. She can carry the news to the old man."

So he sent the swineherd off. Eumaeus took his sandals, bound them on, and set out for the town.

  

Athena did not miss Eumaeus leaving the station. She came close, in the shape of a woman — tall, beautiful, skilled in fine work — and stood by the doorway, showing herself to Odysseus. Telemachus did not see her or sense her at all; the gods don't reveal themselves to everyone. But Odysseus saw, and so did the dogs: they didn't bark; they shrank away whimpering to the far side of the yard. She lifted her brows, signaling. Odysseus understood. He went out past the great wall of the courtyard and stood in front of her, and she said:

"Son of Laertes, born of Zeus, Odysseus of many schemes — now is the time. Tell your son. Hide nothing. Plan the death and ruin of the suitors together, then go to the famous town. I won't be far from you two for long. I am hungry for the fight."

She touched him with her golden wand. A clean cloak and tunic appeared around his chest. She filled out his body, gave him back his youth. His skin went dark again, his jaw firmed, the beard around his chin grew black. Then she was gone, and Odysseus went back inside.

His son stared, then turned his eyes away in fear, afraid this might be a god.

"Stranger," he said, "you look different now from a moment ago. Different clothes. Your skin has changed. You must be one of the gods who hold the wide sky. Be kind to us: we'll give you sacrifices and gifts of worked gold. Have mercy on us."

"I'm no god," said long-suffering Odysseus. "Why do you take me for one of the immortals? I'm your father — the one you grieve for, the one whose absence has let cruel men trample you."

He kissed his son, and the tears he had held back so long ran down his cheeks and fell to the ground.

But Telemachus still could not believe it was his father. "You're not Odysseus," he said. "You're not my father. Some god is tricking me, to make me cry and grieve all the more. No mortal man could do this on his own, turn old, then young, in a heartbeat, unless a god stood beside him and willed it. Just now you were an old man in rags. Now you look like one of the gods of the wide heaven."

"Telemachus," said crafty Odysseus, "it's not right for you to be so amazed, or so frightened, that your own father is here in this house. No other Odysseus is coming. This is me — the one who suffered, who wandered far, and came home in the twentieth year to my own land. This change is the work of Athena, who drives the armies. She makes me what she pleases; she can. One moment a beggar, the next a young man in fine clothes. It's an easy thing for the gods who hold the wide sky to lift a mortal up or grind him down."

He sat. And Telemachus threw his arms around his father and cried, the tears pouring. Grief welled up in both of them, and they wailed, sharper and longer than birds, than eagles or hook-clawed vultures whose chicks the farmers steal before they can fly. So the tears fell pitifully from under their brows.

The sun would have set on their crying if Telemachus hadn't suddenly asked, "What ship, dear father, did the sailors bring you here on? Who did they say they were? You surely didn't walk to Ithaca over the sea."

"I'll tell you the truth, my son," said long-suffering Odysseus. "The Phaeacians brought me — famous sailors, who give safe passage to anyone who comes to them. They carried me sleeping across the sea in a fast ship and set me down in Ithaca, and they gave me splendid gifts: bronze, gold, and woven cloth. By the gods' will those things are hidden in a cave. And I've come here now on Athena's advice, so we can plan the killing of our enemies. Now, count the suitors for me. List them, so I know how many there are and what kind of men. Then I can turn it over in my mind and decide whether the two of us can take them alone, or whether we'll need others."

"Father," said Telemachus, "I've always heard of you: your fighting hands, your sharp mind in council. But what you're saying is too much. I'm staggered by it. Two men can't stand against so many strong ones. There aren't just ten suitors, or twice ten. There are far more. Listen, and count. From Dulichium, fifty-two chosen young men, with six servants. From Same, twenty-four. From Zacynthus, twenty Achaean youths. From Ithaca itself, twelve — all the best. They have the herald Medon with them, a singer, and two attendants skilled at carving meat. If we go up against all of them while they're inside, I'm afraid your revenge will turn very bitter and cruel. Think, can you find anyone willing to help us, who'd fight for us with all his heart?"

"Listen to me," said long-suffering Odysseus. "Think about this: will Athena and Father Zeus be enough for us two? Or should I look for some other ally?"

"Those two you name are good ones to have," said Telemachus, "even sitting high in the clouds. They have power over all other men and over the deathless gods."

"They won't keep out of it long," said Odysseus, "once the fury of war is decided between us and the suitors in my hall. But for now, go home at dawn and mix with that arrogant crowd as before. The swineherd will bring me to the town later, looking like a miserable old beggar. If they treat me badly in the house, hold your heart steady while I suffer, even if they drag me by the feet through the hall and out the door, or throw things at me. Watch, and bear it. Tell them, gently, to stop their madness. They won't listen — their day of reckoning is already on them.

"Here's another thing, fix it in your mind. When Athena, who plans deep, puts it in my head, I'll nod to you. The moment you see it, gather up all the war gear lying in the hall and carry it up into the high storeroom — all of it. When the suitors miss it and ask, put them off with soft words: 'I've moved them out of the smoke. They aren't what they were when Odysseus left for Troy: the fire's breath has stained and ruined them. And more than that, Zeus put this in my mind: I'm afraid that when you've been drinking, you'll start a quarrel and wound each other, and shame the feast and the courting. Iron has a way of drawing a man to use it.' But leave behind two swords and two spears for us, and two oxhide shields we can grab. Then we'll charge in and take them — and Athena and the planner Zeus will leave their minds dazed.

"One more thing, set it in your heart. If you're truly my son, my own blood, let no one learn Odysseus is in the house. Not Laertes, not the swineherd, not any of the servants — not even Penelope. You and I alone will test the women and find out where they stand. And we might try some of the men too, to see who still honors and fears us, and who doesn't care, who insults you, as fine as you are."

His brave son answered, "Father, you'll learn what I'm made of soon enough. I'm not careless or weak-minded. But I don't think this last plan helps either of us — think it over. You'll waste a long time testing each man on the farms, going field to field, while the suitors sit at ease in the hall, devouring everything we have without limit, without mercy. The women, yes, test them, find which ones shame you and which are loyal. But I wouldn't go from station to station testing the slaves. Save that for later, if you really have a sign from Zeus, holder of the storm-shield."

  

While they were talking, the good ship that had carried Telemachus and all his crew from Pylos was coming into Ithaca. When they reached the deep harbor, they dragged the black ship up onto the land. Proud attendants carried off their gear and brought the splendid gifts straight to the house of Clytius. Then they sent a herald to the house of Odysseus to tell wise Penelope that Telemachus was out in the country, but had ordered the ship sailed to the town, so that the proud queen, frightened in her heart, wouldn't be left in tears.

The herald and the swineherd met, both carrying the same message to the woman. When they reached the house of the king, the herald spoke right out in front of the slave women: "Your son, my queen, has come home." But Eumaeus went close to Penelope and told her privately all that her son had said to tell her. Then he left the courtyard and the hall and went back to his pigs.

The suitors were stunned and downcast. They came out past the great wall of the courtyard and sat down before the gates. Eurymachus, son of Polybus, spoke first.

"Friends, this is a big thing: Telemachus has pulled it off, this voyage, and we swore it would never happen. Come, let's drag a black ship into the water, the best we have, gather a crew of seamen, and send word fast to our men out there to come home at once."

He had barely finished when Amphinomus, turning where he sat, saw a ship inside the deep harbor, men furling the sails, oars in their hands. He laughed pleasantly and said to the others, "No need to send word. They're here already. Either some god told them, or they saw the ship sail past and couldn't catch her."

They rose and went down to the shore. The crew was dragging the black ship up onto the land while the attendants carried off the gear. Then the suitors went together to the meeting place and would let no one else sit with them, young or old. Antinous, son of Eupeithes, spoke:

"Curse it, see how the gods saved this man from ruin. All day we kept lookouts on the windy headlands, one after another, and when the sun went down we never spent a night on shore but stayed at sea in the fast ship, waiting for dawn, lying in wait to catch Telemachus and kill him. And some god has brought him home behind our backs. Now let's plan a grim death for him here, and not let him slip away. While he lives, I don't think this business of ours can be finished. He's clever, good at planning, sharp-minded, and the people no longer favor us as they did. So we must move before he calls the Achaeans to assembly. He won't let it go, I'm sure of it. He'll stand up in a fury and tell them all how we plotted his death and missed him. They won't like hearing of such crimes. They might do us harm and drive us out of our own land, off to some other people's country. Let's get ahead of him: take him on the farm, away from the town, or on the road. We'll keep his goods and his property, split fairly among us, and give the house to his mother and whoever marries her. But if this plan doesn't suit you, if you'd rather he lived and kept all his father's wealth, then let's stop gathering here and eating up his goods. Let each of us court her from his own house with bride-gifts, and let her marry the man who offers the most and whose fate it is to come for her."

He finished, and they all sat silent. Then Amphinomus rose — the shining son of Nisus, who was son of King Aretias. He led the suitors from Dulichium, rich in wheat and grass, and of all of them his talk pleased Penelope most, for he had a decent mind. He spoke to them with good will:

"Friends, I don't want to kill Telemachus. It's a terrible thing to kill a man of royal blood. First let's ask the will of the gods. If the laws of great Zeus approve it, I'll kill him myself and urge everyone else to do the same. But if the gods turn us away from it, I say hold your hands."

So said Amphinomus, and they liked it. They got up and went into the house of Odysseus and sat down in the polished chairs.

  

Then wise Penelope had another idea: to show herself to the suitors, men so swollen with arrogance. She had learned of the plot against her son's life; the herald Medon had overheard their plans and told her. She went down to the hall with her attendants, and when she reached the suitors, that lovely woman stood by the doorpost of the well-built roof, holding her shining veil before her face, and she lashed out at Antinous:

"Antinous — full of insolence, scheming evil. They say you're the best of all the young men in Ithaca at counsel and speaking. You're nothing of the kind. Madman — why do you stitch death and doom for Telemachus, and ignore those who come asking for protection, with Zeus himself as their witness? It is not right to plot evil against one another. Don't you remember when your father came running to this house, terrified of the people? They were furious with him because he'd gone with Taphian pirates and raided the Thesprotians, who were our friends. They wanted to kill him, tear the life out of him, eat up everything he owned. But Odysseus held them back, stopped them, hungry as they were. And now you devour his house without paying, court his wife, and try to kill his son, and you break my heart. Stop it, I tell you, and make the others stop."

Eurymachus, son of Polybus, answered her. "Daughter of Icarius, wise Penelope, take heart. Don't trouble your mind over this. The man does not live — never will, never can be born — who'll lay a hand on your son Telemachus while I live and look upon the earth. I tell you, and it will surely happen: that man's dark blood will spurt around my spear. For many a time Odysseus, the destroyer of cities, set me on his knees and put roast meat in my hands and held the red wine to my lips. So of all men, Telemachus is dearest to me. I tell him not to fear death from the suitors. But if it comes from the gods — there's no escaping that."

He spoke to calm her, but he himself was plotting the boy's death.

She went up to her bright bedroom and cried for Odysseus, her dear husband, until bright-eyed Athena dropped sweet sleep on her eyelids.

  

In the evening the swineherd came back to Odysseus and his son. They were busy getting supper ready, having killed a year-old pig. But Athena had come near to Odysseus, struck him with her wand, and turned him into an old man again, with ragged clothes on his body, so that the swineherd, seeing him face to face, wouldn't recognize him, and wouldn't go and blurt it out to wise Penelope, unable to hold the secret.

Telemachus spoke first. "You're back, Eumaeus. What's the talk in town? Are the proud suitors home from their ambush, or are they still lying in wait for me on my way home?"

And you answered, Eumaeus: "I didn't think to go asking about that through the town. My heart told me to deliver my message and get back here fast. But a swift messenger from your crew fell in with me — a herald, the first to tell your mother the news. And one thing I do know, because I saw it with my own eyes. I was already up above the city, where the hill of Hermes is, when I saw a fast ship coming into our harbor. There were many men aboard, and she was loaded with shields and double-edged spears. I thought it was them — but I'm not sure."

Telemachus smiled at his father, but turned so the swineherd wouldn't see.

When they had finished the work and the meal was ready, they ate, and no one went without his fair share. And when they had had enough food and drink, they remembered their beds and took the gift of sleep.